


time and life shook hands

by kakikaeru



Series: the ocean breathes salty [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst with an unhappy ending, Character Deaths, Hamlet AU - Freeform, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, blame shakespeare it's his plot, have you heard there's a rumour in st. petersburg, many character deaths, please don't @ me about the character deaths, something is rotten in the state of Russia, the most tragic love story ever composed in english wasn't sad enough so I added a revolution, the tragdie of Victor Prince of Russia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 02:38:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17910395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakikaeru/pseuds/kakikaeru
Summary: Yuuri looked around at the opulence of Victor's bedroom, the starched sheets carefully remade by the maids and erasing the evidence of Yuuri's presence within them the evening prior. He sat on the corner of the silk counterpane and sighed heavily, resigned and dejected, his sand-filled head falling into his hands."Something is rotten in the state of Russia," he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut against tears. "Heaven will direct it."Yuuri follows his school friend Victor to St. Petersburg, intent on providing the Russian Prince comfort.





	time and life shook hands

**Author's Note:**

> I have always felt there was no greater love committed to paper than the quiet, anxious care Horatio shows for Hamlet, and the way Hamlet allows only Horatio in. It seemed a little familiar, and so I present this painful thing. If you are unfamiliar with the play, it's a good idea to know a synopsis before you dive in, both so you can follow Shakespeare's occasionally insane plot (I'm looking at you, pirates), and also to be prepared for the end. This is not a happy story; sometimes, love is not enough.

_I.i._

The first thing that greeted Katsuki Yuuri was the cold. Stepping from the train, it assaulted him like a sharp, sudden wave on the quay, and had him burying his nose deeper into the olive green scarf wound around his neck. The second thing was the drapes of black that hung from every roof and window, stark against the whitewash of winter and rendering the landscape like a still photo, seeping the life and movement from the turned up collars and lowered hats that hurried about but never seemed to progress to a destination. The third was Lieutenant Georgi Popovich.

"You are Katsuki, yes?"

Yuuri looked up from the giant vat of vinegary soup provided by the proprietress of the hotel he'd been directed to, bold in both colour and temperature as if through cheerfulness alone it had the power to defrost him. His Russian was limited and his accent soft, so Yuuri merely nodded - though, there was no one else he could be, his epicanthal folds alone were enough to distinguish him from the sea of Slavic faces.

The Lieutenant put several rubles on the table and directed Yuuri to stand by placing a hand under his elbow.

"Come with me."

 

_I.ii._

Victor left the audience with Yakov as soon as it was plausible for him to get himself dismissed; he did not regret his rudeness, only that it was necessary - Victor disliked exposing the raw parts of himself, but he had been so worn lately that it was almost impossible to avoid. His request to return to school in Switzerland had once again been denied, this time on the grounds that it would be dangerous for him to travel so close to the front, and Victor shut his eyes, frustrated and lost. He sighed deeply, inhaling cold air and then expiring it warm into the atmosphere in a cloud of mist. It was going to chap his lips; the air in St. Petersburg made him feel the entire apparatus of his lungs, a sure sign he'd been away too long. It bit him from the inside, a cutting reminder of home and what lived impossibly beyond it, a golden idyll now unobtainable and out of reach.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and left the battlements; it was truthfully bitterly cold, and the sun would soon set. Victor walked briskly, his cheeks immediately pinking in the warmer hallways, his skin tightening from the sudden change. Victor would ask for a bath, but knew intrinsically that it would not satisfy him.

"God be with you, your highness!"

"And you," Victor answered absently, walking past. Three lowered heads, two in the uniform of the guard, but not all three of them called him by his title.

"…sir."

It brought him up short, Victor turned on his heel abruptly with wide, disbelieving eyes. There was a sudden rushing in his ears, a faintness that made him feel like he wasn't getting enough air. Victor's right hand was suddenly too light.

"Y… Katsuki - or I do forget myself?"

His dark eyes darted left and right before Katsuki Yuuri took the smallest of steps forward and bowed again, this time in the manner of his homeland. "The same, your highness, your humble servant."

"Oh, no," Victor said softly, trembling with the weight of far too much, of relief. "My dear friend, I'll change that name with you."

Yuuri straightened then, and Victor was permitted, like so few were, to gaze directly into his eyes. His inky-black hair was longer, hanging softly around his face, and his spectacles were slightly askew on his nose from bending over. A soft flush of petal pink sat high upon his cheekbones, and Victor had the pleasure of watching it seep lower across his alabaster skin as their open stare lengthened, grew heavy, contained multitudes. Someone cleared their throat.

"Popovich, Nekola," Victor acknowledged, which allowed the guards to either side of Yuuri to relax.

"Good evening, sir," Popovich said, but Victor did not speak to him again.

"What brings you from Lausanne, Katsuki?" he asked quietly, in a way that suggested Yuuri's answer might give him reason to punish the men flanking him. "I forget the date, has the semester finished?"

Yuuri's cheeks turned red. "A - a truant disposition…" he murmured, embarrassed, and Victor was quick to soothe.

"Another would not say so of you; I'll not let you fool me into believing such a lie," he smiled. "I know you are not a truant. Why have you come to St. Petersburg?"

"My lord…" His shoulders set, drew back, and for a moment Yuuri's face bore a look of brave emotion before he hid it once again behind the high walls he used to protect himself. Even experiencing it at so light a touch, the blazing gaze still made Victor want to crumble at his feet. Yuuri wore a black suit under his heavy, charcoal coloured wool coat, his gloves were dark grey. The only colour on his person came from the green scarf under his lapels, and the untameable beauty of his large, wine coloured eyes. "I came to see your father's funeral…"

"Ah," Victor whispered, and he fought for a second against all the unspoken things in Yuuri's words. "I think, my dear friend, that it was to see my uncle's coronation."

Yuuri's lips pressed together. "Indeed, it followed… close upon."

Victor smiled handsomely, perfect and poised and vacuous. "You've come just in time, the new King keeps the Orthodox this evening. There will be much merry-making tonight."

"Oh…" Yuuri frowned and licked his lips. "It has been a long journey. If your highness will excuse me, I will refresh myself appropriately."

"Nonsense, nonsense! We must show you the very best of our hospitality. Dine with me, I will be your escort." Victor crossed the hall and allowed himself to set his hand companionably on Yuuri's shoulder. "It is no trouble for you, sir."

For his part, Yuuri permitted himself to be led, looked only once or six times at the guards who followed them through the hallways, flushed only briefly each time someone they encountered immediately gave way with a respectful salutation. Upon entering his rooms Victor gave orders in quick, quiet Russian. His dinner was already waiting, more than enough for two, and the maids dutifully banked the fires high before they scuttled quietly from the sitting room and left them finally alone. Victor took off his overcoat and felt the weight of Yuuri's eyes on him from the doorway, where he had stood unmoving since stepping through it.

"Will you take your coat off?" Victor asked. Yuuri had strange notions of indoors and outdoors sometimes, and Victor was unbearably aware of the lavish impersonality of his rooms, how different they were from the cozy, practical few Yuuri inhabited in Lausanne, tucked carefully under the eaves of a house on a quiet street. "I can ring for some slippers for you, if you'd like to remove your shoes." He steeled himself and turned around, but the firelight was reflecting off Yuuri's glasses, keeping him a mystery.

"I'm very cold," Yuuri admitted quietly, slightly ashamed. "I was unprepared for the winter here."

"Come closer to the fire," Victor suggested gently. "Please… please come inside."

Yuuri made a soft noise, he walked into the room and removed his gloves, and the soft, crackling light shone faintly off the gold band on the third finger of his right hand as he tucked them into his pocket.

"Oh..."

It was a surprised sigh, and Victor thought he managed to keep it quiet, but a furrow appeared in Yuuri's brow, and he lifted his hand tentatively towards Victor before pausing. Unsure, of course, of what was permitted, but they were quite alone now. Victor grasped Yuuri's hand in both of his and kissed the ring he'd slipped onto Yuuri's finger in Barcelona, a symbol first of Yuuri's feelings, and now, it appeared, his forgiveness.

"Dearest," he sobbed quietly. "Darling…"

Yuuri's other hand cupped his face, fingers sliding into Victor's hair. "I wasn't sure," he said, voice soft in the ruddy light, "… or I would have come sooner. Victor…"

Victor just shook his head, stepped forwards, fell. He pressed his face into the smooth comfort of Yuuri's neck, and Yuuri let him, caught him with arms that were deceptively strong for such a slender, graceful man. "I'm sorry," he whispered into Victor's hair. "I'm so sorry, Vitya."

It broke open within him, too much and also everything Victor had wanted: this warmth, this softness, this comfort, which Victor had been desperate for, despite the way he had parted from Yuuri in Lausanne. The shape and the smell and the familiarity of Yuuri's presence was a safe haven - Victor sobbed, wept, let himself finally grieve - held tight and protected in Yuuri's embrace. He felt Yuuri's careful kisses on the side of his face, Yuuri's fingers rubbing gentle circles in his hair, and succumbed to his emotions in a way he only ever permitted himself to when alone with Yuuri.

When Victor recovered himself, he was laying atop Yuuri on the sofa in front of the fire, being softly sung to in Japanese. Yuuri trailed off in a manner that seemed to sound natural, he pressed Victor carefully into the cushions and brushed his lips against Victor's hairline before alighting to dampen his handkerchief in the pitcher of water on the sideboard. Victor managed to sit upright; Yuuri knelt on the floor and set one cool hand on the back of Victor's neck while he pressed the wet cloth to Victor's swollen eyes. Victor sniffled twice, and Yuuri produced a second, dry handkerchief.

"Don't look," Victor said. He rarely cried and hated to do so, but Yuuri brushed his hair back from his forehead.

"You are impossibly beautiful," Yuuri promised quietly, fervently, all the more thrilling because such endearments typically embarrassed him. "Even when you cry."

Victor inhaled sharply, gazing to the ceiling. "I fear I will again."

Yuuri sat next to him and took hold of his hands. "You may, as often as you need." A small smile quirked his lips. "Surely I have a deficit to account for on that score."

Victor ran his thumb along the side of Yuuri's forefinger. He stooped, curling in to set his head upon Yuuri's shoulder. "This is already more than I ever expected."

"Whatever is in my power to give, you will have it," Yuuri whispered, one hand freeing itself so he could wrap his arm around Victor's shoulders and pull him closer. "I am your servant, at your disposal." He was still wearing his overcoat and shoes.

"Where are you staying?"

"At the Pushka Inn, on the Moya Embankment. Your guard, Popovich, he will take me back."

Victor clasped Yuuri's hand tighter, and did not correct his pronunciation. "Stay."

"Vitya…"

It was worried, perhaps for good reason, but Victor's apartments were large, boasting several rooms for guests. He had hosted school friends before.

"Please," Victor whispered, clenching his eyes shut. He didn't know how long he could have Yuuri for, but he was determined not to make the same mistake twice. "I'll send Popovich for your luggage. Don't let me leave you again."

Yuuri kissed his part, over the whorl that made Victor self-conscious despite Yuuri's many assurances over the luster and thickness of his hair. "I have made no return plans. I don't intend to part from you ever."

Victor lifted their hands to his lips and kissed Yuuri's knuckles in repeated gratitude. He set Yuuri's arms over his shoulders, cupped Yuuri's jaw with reverent fingers, and gave the same devotion to his face.

"Then, my dear one," Victor smiled, watery and sweet, "let me warm you from the chill, and welcome you to St. Petersburg."

In the palace proper, bells tolled out in celebration of the season, accompanying the King and his courtiers as they drank deep, gorged themselves, and grew wanton. The manic atmosphere swept the halls, but did not penetrate the delicate quiet of the sitting room of Crown Prince Victor Nikolayevich, where a soft peace reigned.

 

_I.iv._

A bitter wind kicked up the following evening, which meant very few eyes were about to witness the Crown Prince wandering the frosty battlements, arm-in-arm with a smaller figure. Katsuki Yuuri was hidden from the cold under a large fur hat and thick green scarf; he wore cashmere-lined English tweed, a heavy felted overcoat, and over it, a second shearling coat belonging to the Crown Prince. All in black, it gave him the appearance of a small bear, and caused him to blend into the shadows cast about by the stark moonlight of near-midnight. He was freezing, and since they were given to waiting anyways, Victor pressed him into a corner of the wall and did his best, with heated attentions from his own mouth, to keep Yuuri warm.

"The air bites shrewdly," Victor breathed, as Yuuri brushed his lips cunning and hard against Victor's jaw. "It is very cold."

Yuuri tightened his grip on Victor's lapels to haul him closer and was rewarded with Victor's arms circling his waist, and one of his legs pressing between Yuuri's own. "It is a nipping and eager air," he teasingly admitted, cold forgotten in the memory of the previous evening, of undressing Victor before the great fireplace in his sitting room and discovering the gold ring threaded through a fine chain around his neck, twin to the one on Yuuri's hand. Even in the bracing wind Yuuri burned, remembering the way he'd rewarded Victor for his enduring faithfulness, tender and slow.

"Mm," Victor agreed, amused, before bending to his task with greater fervor. He broke apart only to carefully remove Yuuri's fogged glasses, and tuck them safely into his inside coat pocket. "What hour now?"

Yuuri kissed him several more times for good measure. "I think it lacks of twelve…"

"No," said a familiar, and bemused voice. "It has struck."

Victor stepped away and Yuuri flushed hotly from the tips of his ears to his toes, suddenly over-warm for being exposed. "In - indeed?" he stammered. "I… I heard it not…"

"Indeed," answered Popovich, who then bowed deeply. "My lord."

Victor merely nodded, looking perhaps more annoyed to have been interrupted than embarrassed at being discovered in so compromising a situation. Yuuri buried his red face into his gloved hands and breathed the sharp air in deeply in an effort to control his rising panic, it made him cough, and Victor set a supportive hand between his shoulders.

"What is it you wished me to see, Popovich?"

The Lieutenant produced a small telescope from his pocket and offered it to the Crown Prince. "Look there," he said, indicating a spot over the wall with his chin.

Victor set the scope to his eye and fiddled with the settings. For several minutes, there was no sound upon the battlements save the billowing racket of the wind.

"No!"

The sharp cry made Yuuri jump, he put a hand on Victor's sleeve without thinking. "Vitya?"

"It is…" In lieu of answering, Victor handed Yuuri the telescope, which was useless to him without his spectacles. "What is the meaning of this, Popovich?"

"I know not sir, only that the crone appears in the gardens every evening at this hour, gathering useless twigs. The men have tried to speak with her, but she manages to elude them."

"She is a spitting image… it's impossible."

Yuuri felt himself shiver in dread, and a terrible, inexplicable foreboding came over him. He tried to fight against the ache in his ribs, and his grip on Victor's arm tightened like a vice. Victor took the telescope from Yuuri's numb fingers and lifted it to his eye once more.

"She beckons me," Victor whispered, incredulous, and moved as though to go.

"Do not follow, my lord!" Yuuri hissed, near tears. "I beg you, do not!"

Victor turned, his delicate blue eyes a mixture of surprised concern and tender reassurance. He blindly handed off the telescope to the Lieutenant in a practised manner that belied just how easy it had been for him to slip once again into his rank. Yuuri felt the corners of his eyelashes stick together, and Victor reached out to warm them with his gloved thumbs, his fingers a protective cage around Yuuri's face.

"What should be the fear?" he whispered gently. "It is only an old woman."

"What if she tempts you away; to the river or some dark place? She wears a kindly face, but will perhaps reveal some other, more sinister form once you are alone. What if she does not act independently?"

"Yuuri, dear one," Victor soothed. "I will be perfectly safe. I am here, on the grounds of the palace, and Popovich is with me."

But Yuuri shook his head vehemently, shaking off Victor's hands, adamant and desperate to give voice to the rising calamity he felt both within himself and the chilly air. He gripped Victor's coat so hard his fingers ached, but Victor managed to gently remove them.

"Hold off your hands," he pleaded softly. "I must go and speak with her, Yuuri."

"Be ruled," Yuuri begged, his breath coming short. "You shall not go."

" _Sweetheart_ …" The endearment, spoken in soft, treasonous German for only Yuuri to hear, coupled with the embrace Victor folded him into, caused Yuuri to give in, to sink under the tremendous weight of his inner demons. He shook in Victor's arms and forgot himself, lost beneath the relentless waves of his impossible despair, and when Yuuri surfaced he was lying on the cot in the guard post with Victor's coat over him, and quite alone. He took his spectacles from the inside pocket and set them on his face, got weakly to his feet and made his way to Victor's apartments, also empty of the presence of their lord.

Yuuri looked around at the opulence of Victor's bedroom, the starched sheets carefully remade by the maids and erasing the evidence of Yuuri's presence within them the evening prior. He sat on the corner of the silk counterpane and sighed heavily, resigned and dejected, his sand-filled head falling into his hands.

"Something is rotten in the state of Russia," he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut against tears. "Heaven will direct it."

 

_III.ii._

Yuuri had no reason not to trust Christophe Giacometti; their relationship existed on the friendliest of terms, but it was the timing and nature of his arrival in St. Petersburg that made Yuuri cautious. Summoned from their school in Lausanne by the King himself, Christophe was boisterous and glad to see them, emotion that Victor matched but Yuuri knew he did not feel. Victor and Christophe's friendship was more of a polite rivalry, pleasantries that masked a one-sided competition. Victor was the poster child of excellence at school; handsome, talented, intelligent, and a prince - while Yuuri was content to be recognized for his own, smaller achievements, and to lend his expertise to Victor's projects, Christophe longed to hold Victor's esteemed place. Yuuri stood in the shadow of a heavy velvet curtain and chewed his lower lip as he watched Christophe and Victor speak to one another across the ballroom, worried about the multitude of ways Christophe's presence could expose them in a way Yuuri had never had to consider before.

The secrets Yuuri was carrying were heavier than boulders; he had woken from a fitful sleep, fully dressed atop the counterpane when Victor's weight shifted the bed beneath him. Yuuri had blinked drowsily and then sat abruptly upright when he registered the haunted look on Victor's face.

"What is it? Gods, Vitya…"

"My father…" Victor had said hollowly, his eyes blank and every line of his treasured face warped in pain. "My father was murdered…"

Yuuri has been careful to keep as close to Victor as convention and rank allowed; since the evening atop the battlements Victor has affected a clumsy sort of madness in public, easily explained away as the stress of his mourning. The rumour at court is that Yuuri has been employed to mind Victor, giving him free license to interrupt and steer Victor from interactions that have always been distasteful to him, but which he now has an excuse to respond to without filter. He has made the son of the Italian ambassador - ridiculously convinced Victor has designs upon his sister - needlessly but entertainingly irate. Sara Crispino was in attendance with her father this evening, but Michele had been sent back to Italy; a feat which had required a great deal of politicking and assurances from Yakov, and the King was hiding his displeasure with the Crown Prince by being jovially supportive of Victor's planned entertainment, a ballet of his own composure and choreography, performed by the corps of the Mariinsky.

When they were alone, Victor was by turns brilliantly calculating and adoringly needy - Yuuri could drop the mantle of observing him for cracks in favour of being a sounding board for his plans, and letting Victor put his hands and mouth on any part of Yuuri he desired to - Yuuri was gratified to know he could be a place where Victor did not have to pretend, that in his body Victor could find a temporary release from the weight of his burdens. Alone, Yuuri was free to simply love Victor, and despite the anxiety gripping him over the danger they were in, Yuuri was happy. It coloured his cheeks and brightened his eyes, and Victor, crossing the room to find him, smiled softly and privately, the tender smile he wore for Yuuri alone.

"Katsuki Yuuri," Victor murmured, plucking two flutes of champagne from a passing tray, and offering one to him.

"Here, sweet lord," Yuuri blushed, taking the glass and raising it in a small toast, "and at your service."

"You are the most honest man I have ever met," Victor said, his eyes raking hungrily from Yuuri's toes to the top of his head as Victor sipped his champagne, causing heat to pool in the pit of Yuuri's stomach. Victor looked unfairly handsome in his evening dress, and Yuuri hoped against his better judgement that the night might end softly, with Victor pressed into the sheets of his bed while Yuuri peeled him out of every elegant layer. His ears went red with embarrassment at Victor's complement, and his nature demanded he correct it.

"Oh, my dear lord -"

"No, don't," Victor cut him off quietly. "I do not flatter; I have no need to impress you." He leaned in as close as was proper for two men in public, and whispered "My soul has already sealed you for itself, and chosen well, for you are blessed with both a kind heart and good judgement. Fortune has given me a sound and rational man, and I wear you in my heart's core."

Yuuri's eyes watered; perhaps there would come a time in St. Petersburg where he became master of his own weaknesses, and learnt to hide his emotions, but the Crown Prince seemed bent on trying him desperately. "You say you do not flatter…" he admonished, slightly breathless, and Victor smiled into his champagne flute. Had they been alone, Yuuri did not doubt Victor would have kissed him.

"I speak only truths. You are the most stunning creature in this room."

"Then, I implore you to locate a mirror, and correct yourself."

Victor grinned heart-shaped, his sea-coloured eyes sparkling in delight, reminding Yuuri of the summer sun on the water in Hasetsu. His returning smile was as fond as he could make it in company. But before Victor could say something daring and wonderful in return, the herald announced the entrance of the King and Queen to the ballroom, and Victor's face sealed into a mask of polite courtesy. "Will you watch him for me, Yuuri?" he whispered, and Yuuri could only agree and let him go.

 

_IV.iii._

He was not certain of the commotion that followed, only that Yuuri was forced to endure Victor's empty and uncomfortable flirtations with Sara Crispino and nearly forgot his duty; but he _saw_ , he caught the horrified guilt upon the new King's face, and when Victor rushed to him after the hasty and early exit of Yakov and Lilia from the ballroom, asking _Did you see?_ Yuuri was able to acquiesce, terror gripping his throat and rendering him near mute, so that his response came cracked from his lips. _I did very well note him_.

It had been hours since, and Yuuri sat, stiff and impatient and afraid, waiting for Victor in his sitting room. The fire had burnt low to only embers when the door banged open - Yuuri was instantly on his feet, ready to be a comfort, a confidante, an ally, whatever it was that Victor needed, but it was not Victor who burst into the room.

"Seize him," Popovich growled, and Yuuri backed away with his hands out.

"What…" his eyes went wide and Yuuri completely forgot his Russian, shouting instead in French. "What is the meaning of this? Unhand me, no!"

Their unprompted actions against him made little sense and while Yuuri was not prone to flight, he had been taught to fence in Lausanne, and before that he had been the best student of his dojo. His fist balled of its own volition and connected with a nameless face, but before Yuuri could grab the poker from the fire tools, large hands were on him, dragging him down, and boots kicked sharply into his ribs to knock the wind and protests from him. Yuuri struggled vainly against their hold to stand up; Popovich removed his spectacles, tucked them into his uniform, and slapped Yuuri so hard across the face it split his lip and made him see stars.

"Be careful," Popovich warned quietly as he leaned over him, in French and not Russian, for only Yuuri's ear. "They do not yet know who you are."

He blinked at the Lieutenant, mind reeling with sick understanding. Yuuri was desperate to ask where Victor was, but Popovich stood up with a firm nod and the rest of the guards dragged Yuuri from the room. The palace was dark but in an uproar; servants and guards rushing about everywhere and guests peeking from doorways. Yuuri thought he heard a woman screaming. They took him down, away, into a darker and less decorated part of the palace: instead of fine gilded plaster the walls were bare stone, and Yuuri realized, bitter and frightened, that this was it, he was going to die in a dark prison in St. Petersburg, and his mother, gods, _his mother_ , would never know why.

The corridor was dimly lit with only torches, a rudimentary mode of illumination Yuuri had not seen since leaving Japan. Over their sucking, crackling flame, he could make out the frustrated anger of Yakov's voice, and the flippant, bored tones of Victor, both of them speaking Russian too muted by the walls for him to understand. Yuuri dug his heels into the floor; suddenly uncaring of his own harm. He would not let Victor suffer, if they were going to kill him it would be here, in the hallway and alone, not in front of the love of his life, forced to watch as though Yuuri meant nothing.

Yuuri spit blood onto the floor boards, his eyes gone savage and wild. "No! No, no," he struggled, shouting in Russian, but the guards simply lifted him up a little higher.

"Where is the ambassador?!" Yakov thundered as the door opened, and Victor simply giggled.

"At supper."

They dumped him unceremoniously onto the floor, and Yuuri attempted to scramble to his knees, but Popovich put a stilling hand on his shoulder to prevent him from rising any further. Victor's face went whiter than fresh snow, whiter than his fine, silvery hair, and he was held back from advancing towards Yuuri by the press of Nekola's rifle against his chest. Yuuri wished there wasn't so much blood on his face or the starched yoke of his evening shirt, but he looked bravely up at Victor and valiantly did not jerk or whimper when something cold and heavy was set against his temple.

"I will ask again," Yakov said, deadly quiet. "Where is the body of the Italian ambassador?"

"In the third cupboard of the stairs to the lobby," Victor responded immediately, raising his hands in surrender.

"Go and seek it," Yakov ordered, and a few of the guards left with smart salutes. Neither Victor nor Yuuri noticed anything at all, still staring at one another, deaf to anything save the wordless conversation they held between their gaze. The pistol remained against Yuuri's head, and Popovich still stood over him, his hand squeezing his shoulder in something almost like reassurance. Yakov's voice bore the tone of a menacing smile as he spoke behind Yuuri's shoulder.

"Because of what you have done, Victor, we will need to send you away for your own safety. It's fortunate our good friend Master Giacometti is here, he has prepared to escort you, along with a guard of honour, to England. You will leave now, immediately."

"To England?"

Yuuri felt the gun press firmer, and heard the removal of the safety. Popovich's hand seemed like the only thing holding him upright, but Yuuri refused to cry. Instead he shut his eyes, schooling his face, trying, for Victor, to make his expression peaceful. _I don't regret it. I love you, I have loved you so much_.

"Yes Victor," Yakov answered, and Victor's voice followed, soft and pained.

"You have me, I will go."

"Indeed you shall. Take him hence."

"Yakov…" Victor begged, quiet. "Yakov, please… let him up."

"Oh, I suppose." Yakov laughed and the gun was removed from Yuuri's temple; Yuuri permitted himself a soft, relieved sigh.

"But I believe," Yakov continued, "Master Katsuki is keen to remain here in St. Petersburg, are you not sir?" Yuuri opened his eyes to look at Victor, and answered only the unspoken question in his eyes.

"Yes," he whispered hoarsely, devoted heart on his sleeve. "I am, _ever_ , at your service."

"I see an angel that sees me," Victor breathed, and Yuuri nearly burst into tears. "Farewell, my dear one."

"Call me your loving uncle instead, Victor," Yakov corrected, and Victor merely nodded, his eyes never leaving Yuuri's face as he was walked by Nekola from the room. Christophe spared Yuuri a worried glance, but the King did not look once at the young man he had so terrified for his own ends as he left, until Yuuri was alone with Popovich.

The Lieutenant's arm slung carefully across Yuuri's shoulders, he offered Yuuri back his glasses and a handkerchief for his bloody mouth. "I swear to you sir, no harm will befall you in St. Petersburg. Upon my life."

Yuuri's shoulders shook; it was impossible for him to articulate anything, even empty thanks. He allowed Popovich to walk him back to Victor's apartments, thrown into terrible disarray by the palace guards, and dismissed him to sit amongst the wreckage of their belongings, alone.

 

_IV.iv._

Christophe's attempts at peace went largely ignored by Victor, who lacked the presence of mind to spar words when his thoughts were all for Yuuri, hopelessly trapped. Victor was not so alone that he did not have helpful friends; eyes and ears had already reported to him through Nekola that Yuuri remained unharmed, that he could walk the palace grounds at his leisure and that Popovich - blessed, true Popovich - followed two steps behind any Yuuri took.

The weather continued cold and wretched, and Victor did not bother to make himself more so by attempting conversation with his captors. It thus came as a surprise to all of them, when, observing a small army at practice on a hill above the city, the Crown Prince spoke at last.

"Whose powers are these?"

"My lord, they are of Russia sir," Nekola answered, "under the command of General Altin."

"Altin," he mused.

"Newly come from the front, sir, and due soon to return."

Victor watched for a long moment, observing the movements of the troops and the distant man on horseback who rode about them, ordering and keeping them in formation.

"I see," he murmured finally, and let himself be led away.

 

_IV.vi._

Spring in St. Petersburg was only slightly more bearable than winter, Yuuri went out in the same amount of clothes, and found he could remain outside for longer than a minute before he was frozen to the bone. Similarly miserable, Sara Crispino clung to his arm as he led her carefully along the garden paths by the river, made treacherous and icy by the slow thaw. As equally a prisoner of the state as Yuuri, they had found a solaced friendship in one another, cemented when Yuuri's love letters from Victor were discovered in the ransacking of the Crown Prince's rooms, and Sara bravely stepped forward to declare that they were hers, that she had entrusted them to Yuuri for safe keeping because she was fearful of her brother's temper.

They were aware of the Queen trailing the garden paths in a manner that attempted to keep her from coming too closely, they knew she liked to walk in this part of the garden at this hour and had decided, unspoken, to refresh themselves in the cool air at the same time each day. The Queen was nervous of Sara, but proud, and Yuuri was happy to help the young woman he'd come to rely on in this small act of resistance.  Behind them walked Popovich, stalwart as always.

"She pities me," Sara said quietly, leaning over to pluck an early bloom from a shrub, "and will not speak with me."

"She is afraid of you," Yuuri offered, and Sara laughed lightly and squeezed his arm.

"It is you who frightens her!" She gave Yuuri a beautiful sunny smile, and tucked the flower behind his ear. "She has no idea what to make of you."

"I am harmless enough," Yuuri sighed. He had tried again to send a letter to Victor, this time through his parents, and been thwarted. The King had now passed orders that Yuuri was not permitted to send any letters, in any language, to anyone at all.

"Me, she understands. The jilted lover," Sara wiggled her eyebrows. "But you… the confidante. She knows that the minute you are outside of these walls you have the capacity to break her. You have immense power, Katsuki Yuuri."

"Mm, well, when your brother finally grows suspicious enough to charge the palace gates and free us, I will let you teach me to wield it."

"I shall with great pleasure," Sara promised. "Come, I am thoroughly frozen. Will you join me for tea in my sitting room?"

This was a careful cipher; his own writing implements had all been taken, and he could not ask for so much as a scrap of loose ledger, so Yuuri was using the stationery in Sara's room under the guise of learning Italian. The King allowed Yuuri to read only under supervision, lest he rip an appropriately explanatory page from a book and somehow lob it over the walls, informing a passerby of his plight. Yuuri did not care that he suffered, but he was desperate for news of Victor. Popovich could tell him only that the Crown Prince had sailed from the coast, but nothing more. It chaffed him, gnawing at nerves that were already unsteady; surely, surely Victor had arrived in England by now?

"I will, thank you," Yuuri agreed, and helped Sara along the path that wound back towards the palace, and her small, cheerful parlour. They were comfortably installed when Popovich knocked on the door in haste, and ushered in a rough looking man in the clothes of a fisherman.

"This man has a letter for you, Katsuki," Popovich said with great weight, and Yuuri sat straight up in his chair.

"God be with you sir!" Yuuri exclaimed in Russian, and the sailor effected an idea of a bow.

"And him with you, Young Master. There's a letter for you." He pressed a worn envelope into Yuuri's hand, it's edges soft from damp and handling. "It's from the young ambassador bound for England, sir, if your name is Katsuki, then it's for you."

"It is," Yuuri whispered, and ran his thumb over the seal; Victor had used an excess of wax in sealing it; the deep, circular impression bore a relief of the half snowflake engraving that only Yuuri would recognize. He was afraid to break it, and his hands shook. Sara knelt on the floor and took gentle hold of his wrists.

"Shall I help you, Yuuri?" she asked kindly.

"Ah, that's…no," Yuuri mumbled. He set his shoulders. "No, I can…"

His thumb nail went under the red wax. The letter was brief, coded, and startled him, but not so much that Yuuri was unable to follow it's instructions, or act with speed.

"It says you can take me to him?"

"Aye sir. I've brought the necessary rags."

"Then, at once," Yuuri said, and stood abruptly, finally glad of movement, of purpose. "I must go now!"

"We should wait for the cover of night, Katsuki," Popovich warned, but Sara shook her head.

"I will say you walked me to my sitting room and took your leave. I have not seen you since." She winked and squeezed Yuuri's hands. "Go to him."

Yuuri threw his arms around Sara and hugged her. "I will be back for you," he promised, and followed the sailor from the room.

 

_V.i._

Victor waited in the cramped lodgings Nekola had organized at disreputable inn near the harbour and paced, though the space on the floor was only enough to accommodate two of his large strides at a time. He was nearly dizzy, and couldn't tell if it was caused by the abrupt exercise or the agony of his impatience. He thought more than once about going to the window, to watch the street for the first sign of the precious treasure that was due to return to him, but could not make himself cease his frantic movement. So it happened that when Nekola's special knock sounded on his door Victor was furthest from it; he spun in bated anticipation as it opened to reveal Yuuri, dressed in sailor's weeds, and comically dancing from foot to foot. Victor threw his arms wide and Yuuri gave a startled cry and leapt, eating the distance in one great bound that gained him Victor's arms, nearly knocking them both to the floor.

"Victor!"

"Yuuri," Victor breathed into Yuuri's hair, cradling the back of his head in his palm. Yuuri was an unbearably messy crier, and still the most beautiful thing Victor had ever seen. He kissed the tears from Yuuri's face and smiled at him.

"Surprise," he whispered.  
  


* * *

  
Yuuri came to Victor in only his borrowed rags; good enough to see him safely from the palace, and then to lie discarded upon the floor of the tiny room, forgotten where Victor had thrown them, in favour of his wearing nothing at all. On the fourth day of their reunion, Victor rose early and kissed Yuuri's sleeping face; he went out with Nekola to a finer part of town and returned with several packages, which he woke Yuuri with alongside a warm breakfast. Yuuri ate his wheat porridge in bed and admiring Victor's right hand; Victor had sold the fine chain, and on his third finger proudly sat his wedding band. He conveniently forgot his gloves when they went out for some air. In the safety of a secluded path at the back of a cemetery, Yuuri shyly threaded his arm through Victor's, incandescent in his new blue coat, the faint spring sunlight lending iridescence to his blue-black hair and a golden cast to his skin - the very sight of him, turning his face up with a contented sigh to enjoy the warmth of the sun, set Victor's heart aflame.

"How came you to be so fair?" Victor asked, his smile fond and amazed. "Who allowed it?"

Yuuri lifted Victor's hand to his lips and kissed his replaced ring. "It is merely the biased eye of the beholder," he said, so matter-of-fact that Victor nearly missed his subtle, arch smile.

"Yuuri!" he scolded, and his love answered him with a flushed, flustered laugh. Victor's entire mood was sunshine, he set his other hand at Yuuri's waist and dragged him, squawking in mild protest, into the beginnings of a clumsy waltz. It made Yuuri thoroughly embarrassed, but Victor knew he was too excellent a dancer to suffer awkward steps for long; pride made Yuuri take up the lead to correct their form, and soon he was turning Victor elegantly about on the path.

"If it be so," Victor smiled, "then it stands to reason. My affection is as immeasurable as your loveliness."

"Vitya." Yuuri's ears went completely red, and Victor took pity on him. He leaned forward to press one soft kiss to Yuuri's cheek, and allowed him to end their dance in favour of continuing arm in arm down the path.

"Look there," Victor murmured, pointing ahead. "This gravedigger sings at his work."

Yuuri made a displeased face, his nose wrinkling slightly under the bridge of his spectacles. "It seems a shame, to bury a person on so fine a day," he sighed. "Though perhaps, for this fellow, custom has made his task a lighter one."

"Indeed, we should not begrudge him his small enjoyment." Victor tucked Yuuri's hand more companionably through his elbow and called, "Whose grave is this, sir?"

"It's mine, _clearly_ ," muttered the gravedigger, a slight and slender youth. His bottle green eyes narrowed under the brim of his cap, which was attempting to conceal the abundant wheat sheaf of his hair. He wiped a dirty hand over his cheek and curled his lip at them.

"I think it must be yours," Victor laughed in agreement, "for you lie in it." Yuuri squeezed his arm reproachfully, but could not hide the quirk of his smile. The boy's nostrils flared in indignation.

"I do not _lie_ in it, yet, it is mine," he hissed, and turned his back to ignore them.

"Who is to be buried in it?" Victor asked again.

The boy sighed very heavily, his face upturned to the sky as though imploring it for strength. "One that was a woman, sir, " he said with exaggerated patience, "but, rest her soul, she's dead."

"I see we must speak with particular care," Victor whispered to Yuuri. To the boy he asked "How long have you been a grave maker?"

He had resumed his digging and did not pause to answer. "Since the day the old King Nikolai was defeated against Japan."

Yuuri hummed delicately. "How long is that since?"

The boy spun to stare at him incredulously. "Every idiot knows that, moron! The day the Prince Victor went off to school; the prince who's mad, and sent to England."

"Why was he sent to England?" Victor asked, and the boy eyed him suspiciously before shrugging and returning once more to his work.

"Because he is a fool; he'll either recover his wits there, or it won't matter much if he doesn't."

"Why's that?"

"No one there will notice, they're all as crazy as he is." The boy's shovel caught, and he bent to retrieve the offending debris; he set a muddy skull upon the lip of the grave and carried on digging. It stared at them, two hauntingly empty sockets, and Victor shivered despite the warm sunshine.

"Tell me one thing, Yuuri?" he whispered.

"What's that, my lord?"

"Do you think Peter the Great looks of this fashion, in his crypt?"

Yuuri looked at him a long moment, his large dark eyes unfathomable. "Even so," he said softly.

Victor wasn't sure if he ought to say something in jest, or reassurance - his fingers itched to reach out and smooth the wrinkles from Yuuri's brow. He was spared the choice by the tolling of the nearby church bell. The boy quickly finished his work and scrambled from the grave, plucking up the skull and setting it to one side of the large mound of earth he had created, and would heap upon the casket once the funeral was complete. He effected an air of respectful humbleness, and Victor turned to lead Yuuri away from the path, but then caught sight of the approaching mourners themselves - it was a small but fashionable group, and at its head strode Yakov and Lilia.

"It is the King and Queen," Victor frowned. "Yuuri…"

"Here, my lord." Yuuri took his hand and led Victor around a small crypt, from which they could observe the funeral unseen. The service proceeded in a terribly butchered fashion, as though the deceased had perhaps met their end by their own hand. When the priest finished the psalter, there hung about the mourners a sense of unease.

"What ceremony else?" came a distraught and familiar voice.

"It is Michele Crispino," Victor said, surprised, and Yuuri's eyes went wide behind his spectacles.

"I said, what ceremony _else_ Priest!" Michele shouted, shoving his way towards the head of the grave.

"There's no more that can be done," the priest apologized, spreading his hands. "The circumstances of her death were doubtful."

Yuuri made an abrupt noise, a small, pained groan. He had gone deathly pale, and his hands shook as he clapped them over his mouth. "Yuuri!" Victor reached for him in time; Yuuri's knees gave out. "Darling what…?"

"No," Yuuri moaned. "No… please…"

"Sweets for the sweet," Lilia was saying, as she dropped white roses into the grave. "From my own garden, of which you were so fond…"

Yuuri screamed into his hands and Victor clutched him, dragging him close in his panic. "Dear one, dearest one, breathe," he whispered frantically, "Breathe for me, please, Yuuri!"

"My sister's _drowned_ ," Michele shouted, and Yuuri buried his face into Victor's coat and sobbed.

"No," Victor blinked, aghast. "Sara Crispino?"

"There was no evidence of her struggle," the priest told Michele gently, "please good sir, these rites were as enlarged as could be merited."

Michele grabbed the priest by his cassock and shook him violently. "Lay her in the earth then! From her fair body violets will spring; she will be a glittering angel while you lie howling!" He threw the priest from his grip and stumbled to the casket, grabbing for the lid. "A curse upon the head of the person who harmed you Sara!" he cried, attempting to open the top. When a few of the guards moved to stop him he threw out an arresting hand. "Wait, until I have held her once again…"

Yuuri had begun to retch, and Victor thought only of him and the greater distress the sight of his deceased friend would impart as he strode out from around the crypt. "Enough," he said thickly. "My good sir, _enough_."

Michele's eyes screwed up in impossible rage at the sight of Victor before him. He lunged for Victor with an incensed, animalistic scream; two guards stepped forward to restrain him, while a few more drew in closer to the King and Queen.

"Nikiforov! The devil take your soul!"

"Victor?" Lilia said in shock.

He ignored her, and spoke only to Michele, struggling to be free so that he might wrap his meaty hands around Victor's throat. "I am neither fiery or rash," Victor warned, "but I am dangerous. Hold off your hands."

"My lord," Yuuri said weakly, taking hold of the back of Victor's coat, "be quiet."

"You are a villain of the foulest make," Michele hissed, "and I demand justice!"

Victor took a small step back, it pressed Yuuri closer, up against his back, and Victor was gratified when he felt Yuuri place his cheek between Victor's shoulder blades. "I loved Sara," Victor said quietly, because she had been an intelligent and lovely woman, and Yuuri's firm friend. "I do not understand your anger."

"He is mad, Michele!" Yakov cried. "Escort the Crown Prince to his rooms in the palace!"

The guard who took up his post next to Victor was Popovich, and Nekola materialized on the other side. Victor reached back for Yuuri's wrist and turned, careful not to disrupt him. He offered Yuuri his arm and let him lean woodenly upon Victor for support as more guards surrounded them and they were walked back to the palace, the gate clanking behind them with cold finality.

 

_V.ii._

Victor needed to think, to assess the threads he was pulling and how he'd need to accelerate his plans, but he sat Yuuri on the sofa in his cold and shadowy sitting room, concerned only for his well-being. He poured Yuuri a glass of wine, but when he didn't move to take it, Victor set it on the table and knelt before the sofa, taking Yuuri's hands in his own, desperate to be of assistance.

"What can I do, Yuuri?" he begged. "Teach me to help you."

Yuuri choked incoherently; his shoulders curled inwards, his body slopping under the weight of his struggle. He did not always allow Victor to witness his suffering, or let Victor touch him, but today he did not resist when Victor carried him, a slumped and weak weight in his arms, and set Yuuri down upon the chaise in Victor's private bath. Yuuri's nerves had a tendency to overtake and then wear him down, he was always hollow and absent after, and it took time for Yuuri to come back to himself and warm up again. Victor turned the taps and added the oils himself, as though they were once again in the quiet safety of Yuuri's small rooms in Lausanne. He undressed them both and took particular care over Yuuri, placing soft kisses on his wrists and elbows, holding Yuuri against his own body each time he began to shiver, until his shaking subsided. They settled together in the large tub, and Yuuri permitted Victor to clean him with scented soap and a rough cloth, even though he had in the past been frequently adamant that the practice of cleansing and bathing were two separate actions. For a long while, there was only the sound of the sloshing water and the faint drip of the tap.

"How did you come back?" Yuuri asked, his voice rough and gravelly. Victor had just finished rinsing Yuuri's back, and pressed a kiss to the top of his shoulder. He drew Yuuri up against him, braced between his knees.

"You will not like it," Victor sighed, leaning his head back against the rim of the tub. Yuuri settled his forehead against Victor's jaw.

"Tell me anyways, I wish to know."

"The Straight is greatly clogged, many ships go back and forth in supply of the front; we sailed in great secrecy with no lights to guide us to avoid enemy detection. One night the sea was rough - I couldn't sleep so I wandered the ship in the dark, and happened to find the luggage for our group within the hold. I don't know what came over me, maybe it was providence, but I opened the papers meant for the English monarch... Yakov had written a letter, requesting that I be executed for treason."

Yuuri gasped, and Victor sat up in the bath so he could hold Yuuri closer.

"I could not set foot in England, I knew that. I had hoped to land there and find a means to return to the continent, but now it was impossible. I roused Nekola from his sleep, and together we stole the uniforms of sailors and the lifeboat, and lowered ourselves into the mercy of the sea. We rowed... until the dawn I think, I can scarcely remember it for being so miserable. But as the sky lightened we were spied by a friendly ship, a boat of fishermen, who rescued us and in exchange for our good labour, brought us to the harbour here."

"You might have...Victor, you could have reached France. Gone to Switzerland instead..."

"No," Victor whispered, adamant. "There was something precious to me in St. Petersburg."

"But-"

"Do not, I can hear the protest on your lips. I would not have left you to their mercy, Yuuri."

For a moment, Yuuri said nothing, and Victor knew he was walking the paths in his head, the ones that led him to where he was not enough, that lied. Victor waited, ready to turn every humble protest aside, but when Yuuri at last spoke he was quiet and worried. "Then the King must think you are back from England and the letter went unheeded..."

"I changed it, before we left. The ship was bound with other cargo, I knew they would not turn to look for me. In England will the commission from St. Petersburg land, and in England will they meet their end."

"Then... Christophe... ?"

Victor set his eyes against Yuuri's shoulder, his lips a grim line, and said nothing. Yuuri turned in his arms to hold him, his ringed hand set over Victor's heart.

"I am sorry," Victor whispered, "that to Michele today I forgot myself. I thought only of your distress, and not the grief he must be in. It was inexcusable; I know his grief very well. I will apologize, and hope to earn his forgiveness."

"I will help you," Yuuri promised softly.

Victor smiled, weak and wry. "I do not deserve you."

"Then we are equals." Yuuri stretched back his chin and raised his hand to press against the back of Victor's head, lowering it so Yuuri could kiss him. "Will you take me please, to bed?" he asked. "I wish especially tonight for safety… I don't think I will know it if I am not in your arms."

Victor kissed Yuuri again, several times, until the thought of sleep seemed very far. "I am your servant," he whispered, "and will do such as you command."  
  


* * *

   
Mila Babicheva was young and had been that year newly presented at court, which meant she had not yet learned to school her actions into something calculated. She was bright and kind and fiery; _honest_ , and Yuuri liked her. She had been assigned to look after Sara Crispino, and as her lady-in-waiting had been beyond dutiful and dedicated. She was shown into the sitting room a week after Yuuri and Victor had been shut up into Victor's suite, and Yuuri was struck instantly by the abruptly short bob of red hair, newly shorn, that fell to Mila's chin. She was dressed in black and cast her large, sad blue eyes over their state of undress under their housecoats and the matching rings they wore, before fixing her gaze firmly on the carpet.

"Your lordship is right welcome back to Russia," she said to Victor, curtseying.

They were currently taking breakfast; Victor was stirring jam into his tea, and Yuuri set a hand on his arm to prevent him from saying something unintentionally hurtful. "Do you know this girl?" Victor asked softly, and when Yuuri nodded he patted Yuuri's hand in understanding. He looked up from the table and gave Mila the kind, empty smile he presented to all palace servants. "I thank you, Miss?"

"Babicheva, sir."

"Indeed, Miss Babicheva. You are a friend, I think, of Master Katsuki."

The corners of Mila's lips curled, and she dragged one toe over a blue rose woven into the carpet. "I am honoured if he thinks me a friend, sir."

"So say all with that honour," Victor smiled, this time a true one. "How can I assist you this morning, Miss Babicheva?"

Mila curtsied again. "My lord, I have been sent with a message from the King."

"I will hear it." Victor picked up a piece of dense, dark bread and reached for the butter, and Yuuri looked over the lip of his teacup, trying to give Mila silent encouragement.

"You are perhaps familiar, my lord, with Michele Crispino, the son of the late ambassador," she said bravely, her shoulders straightening. There was only the barest, tiniest crack in her voice at the mention of Sara's last name, but it shattered Yuuri's heart just the same. He did not think he could have borne it; Mila was formed of a diamond.

"He is widely considered to be a fencer of unmatched skill," Mila continued, "and the King has wagered that in a dozen passes Michele will not exceed you three hits. I have been sent sir, to hear your answer and relay it to the King."

Yuuri nearly choked on his tea, and Victor set a hand between his shoulder blades. He reached for his napkin and mopped at his face; Victor had set one finger to his lips and was staring into the fireplace without seeing it, and the sight filled Yuuri with dread. "My lord…" he whispered.

"What if I answer no?" Victor asked.

"I will give that answer to the King."

Victor tapped his lip three times, and then smiled. "Let the foils be brought," he nodded. "If the King holds his purpose, I will win for him and I can, if not I will gain nothing but my shame and the odd hits."

Mila curtsied a final time and left to deliver Victor's assent, closing the door softly behind her. Yuuri set down his napkin, his hands curling into fists in his lap. "You will lose this wager, my lord," he said, voice wavering with anger.

Victor reached out to cup his hands over Yuuri's fists. "I do not think so," he said gently. "Yuuri, the only fencer who can come near enough to surpass me is you, you know this darling. No, I will win at the odds." He smiled, far too large and far too bright, causing Yuuri's stomach to shred itself into ribbons.

"Victor-"

"You needn’t worry my darling." Victor lifted Yuuri's hand and kissed his knuckles. "I will win today for you."

"If your mind dislikes anything, obey it," Yuuri pleaded. "I will go and say you are not fit."

"Not a whit. You are to never leave my side, yes?"

"My lord." Tears pricked the corners of his eyes and Yuuri slid from his chair to prostrate himself at Victor's feet. "My sweet lord… Victor… I beg you, _please_ , do not-"

"Yuuri." Victor cupped his face in his hand, his other clasped firm around the hand upon which Yuuri wore his ring. "There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow." He smiled soft and pulled Yuuri up by his hand, until he was seated in Victor's lap. It did not make Yuuri less agitated; he pointedly avoiding looking at Victor by concentrating on their entwined hands on his hip. Victor sighed and set his chin on Yuuri's shoulder.

"All I can be, is ready."

Yuuri's breath hitched and Victor embraced him tightly; Yuuri gripped the back of Victor's dressing gown in his fist and shook with the terror of his feelings. It felt like such a short time ago that they had escaped calamity, that Victor had promised, soft and sweet and wrapped around Yuuri in small bed in a dingy inn, that soon he would be free, that soon they would leave together, and go where there was nothing to check them save the responsibility of each other’s happiness. He trusted Victor, _loved_ Victor, but his nerves refused to quiet.

" _I_ dislike this," he sobbed quietly. "I abhor it immensely…"

"Let be," Victor soothed, pressing soft kisses to the side of Yuuri's head. "Let be, my dearest one. Stand as my second, hm? I'll have no other. Stand up with me, Yuuri."

"I would stand up with you against the world," Yuuri cried, wretched. "Against a thousand uncles, kings, any pain that would dare plague you! Promise me, please, that when this wager is done, you will let me take you from here."

Victor slid his hands into Yuuri's hair, he kissed the breath and wits from him. "Zolotse moya," he breathed, "I will go as you command me, I am yours."

"Then… let's end this."  
  


* * *

  
"Treachery!"

Victor screamed it, clutching at his arm, where a rude scratch caused by the swipe of Michele's foil had started to sting. He watched Lilia's face turn purple with poison, her swollen lips hissing "The King… the King!" and gestured to the guards with his sword.

"Lock the doors and seek it out!"

They would not find it; Mila had already slipped from the room and was even now stealing through the narrow servants quarters of the palace, making her escape. She was owed her revenge, and Victor, who would have torn the world asunder if even a hair had been out of place on Yuuri's head at the hand of the King and Queen, would not see Mila punished for taking the life that had stolen the life of her beloved.

"It's here," Michele wheezed unexpectedly, from his knees, tossing his foil down onto the intricate parquet of the floor. "Victor… you are slain…"

"Come now, this scratch?" He stumbled back, into strong, slender arms. Yuuri caught him before he could fall, and Victor’s foil slid from his rapidly numbing fingers. "No, that’s impossible…" he breathed.

The wound in Michele's neck was much deeper, and his breaths were starting to choke him. "The sword is poisoned. And the King… he is to blame!" He toppled forwards, spasms wracking his body, and Yuuri clutched Victor to him protectively as the courtiers began to shout.

"Treason!" someone bellowed, but it was drowned out by the sound of glass breaking and gunfire, exactly on time, just as Victor had planned. But he had not bargained for treachery, and Victor's legs gave out, a surprised little groan escaping his lips.

"Vitya!"

Yuuri lowered him carefully to the floor, digging desperately through his pockets for his handkerchiefs. He always carried two, but today seemed at a loss to locate either. The sting in Victor’s arm had become a fire that had travelled into his shoulder and down his chest; Victor could no longer feel his hand, and his chest felt unnaturally tight, as though the air had become thick.

"Yuuri, you need to leave." Victor took up Yuuri's hand, which he was pressing to the cut in Victor's arm. "Listen to me darling, you must get out now."

"What are you talking about?" Yuuri shouted desperately, pulling his hand free. "Victor, I've got to treat this-"

"Solnyshko. Please." It was getting very hard to focus with his body turning sluggish and heavy. "It is too late now. You're going to be alright, but you have to find Popovich… please… I need to know you’ll be safe, darling."

"Then I’ll have to disappoint you,” Yuuri snapped, at last fumbling free a handkerchief. He set the corner of it in his mouth to tear it into a bandage, and the fire in Victor’s shoulder burned down his back, made him spasm and choke.

“Victor?!"

It hurt more than he thought it would, to see the realization slowly come over Yuuri's face, to watch it break and reform in despair. Victor tried to pull Yuuri into his arms, but his limbs weren't as responsive as they should be, he jerked again and slipped towards the floor, and Yuuri caught him, clutching Victor to his chest.

"Vitya, Vitya…" he sobbed. "I can't… I won’t leave you! I promised, to never leave your side…"

From any other man it would have been solely a heartfelt plea, but Yuuri was never ordinary, and constantly subverted Victor's expectations. He had sworn to love Victor until death parted them, but his eyes travelled across the tiles of the floor and landed on the abandoned foil, gaze hardening into determination. Yuuri had told Victor stories about his childhood, about the deep sense of duty with which he was raised and the manner in which repentance, honour and love were paid. He barely hesitated.

"In Japan," he whispered, "an oath is sworn beyond death…"

"No!"

Victor kicked out his foot with strength he did not have, sending the sword skittering away. He pawed at Yuuri's clothes in terror, panic overriding the lethargy trying to overtake his body.

"No, god, Yuuri!" he pleaded. "Please, Yuuri, please! You have to live… live for me and tell our story..."

An unnatural wail broke from Yuuri's lips and he buried his face into Victor's neck, his glasses digging into Victor's shoulder as Yuuri shook with indecipherable sobs. Victor couldn't feel his arms and legs and a chill had replaced the burning which ought to have worried him, but the poison curling through his veins was making him tired, making him apathetic to all of his needs save one.

"Yuuri? I love you. I have loved you since… I first saw you…" Victors words were becoming slurred, but he mumbled on. "So beautiful… dancing… like you made music…" His eyes drifted shut and Yuuri cupped his cheek.

"I - I think… I was born to be yours," Yuuri whispered, hoarse and broken. "I wanted to save you. I tried to."

"You… did…Yuuri, you… love you."

" _Ai shiteru yo_ …"

Victor's lips quirked, and he wanted to open his eyes, but couldn't. Yuuri's thumb traced gently across the thin skin beneath Victor's eyelids. "You told me… it wasn't… said out… loud."

"It is," Yuuri assured him, and water was dripping onto Victor's face, as though it had started to rain. "You say it when it matters."

"Mmm. I want… rest now."

" _Oyasuminasai, anata_."

Throughout the palace, soldiers and common people alike stormed the hallways, bringing chaos and change. They dragged the new King from his opulent rooms and shot him in the square while people cheered, suffused at last with hope, with power over their own destiny. They caused a great deal of noise and excitement, but their beloved and favorite Prince was not there to witness the coup he'd orchestrated; as General Altin's men gained the throne room, Victor slipped into the darkness, his last sensation the press of gentle lips over his own, soft and warm. He did not hear the heartrending sobs that shattered the deafening silence, or feel the vice-like grip on his body, or see the way the soldiers hung back, ordered by their general to give grief it's respect. There was only a skinny, blonde boy, with a smear of mud on his cheek and a bloody shovel in his hands, unafraid of mourning, who was willing to cross the floor and observe the pain and heartbreak there.

He looked up from the scene before him to General Altin, his green eyes sharp and keen.

"Victor Nikolayevich is dead."  
  


* * *

  
The last thing to say goodbye to Yuuri, as he shouldered a simple leather pack in the train station and prepared to leave St. Petersburg, was Lieutenant Georgi Popovich. His grey coat stood out against the bright colours of the people swirling around them, a void in the riot of spring much like Yuuri himself was, dressed all in black. They were of the old landscape, and no longer fit.

"I hope someday you will come to forgive us," he said, pressing a letter into Yuuri's palm, as though he could bear the responsibility of the entirety of his people, of the tide of history and change. "That, perhaps, you will understand."

Yuuri stuffed the letter into his pocket with a nod; he was not angry with Popovich, but he was an open wound, incapable of experiencing even a gentle touch as anything but abrasive. On the third finger of his right hand two gold rings sat stacked, a snowflake made whole that was always supposed to be two halves. Everything else was packed away in his trunk, but this he had chosen to carry.

"Where will you go?" Popovich asked, as Yuuri turned to step up onto the train.

"Switzerland," he said. Yuuri had affairs to settle, the house to close up. "And then home."

"A safe journey," Popovich called, and Yuuri squeezed shut his eyes against the sting. He was never supposed to make this trip alone.

**Author's Note:**

> I promise in the next part of the series, I will not kill (or hint at killing) Victor. On my honour as a gentleman!


End file.
